Wanted
by ImogenByNight
Summary: Dean Winchester has a cowboy fetish... not that he'll admit it. A little dose of cracky destiel fluff!
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: just something short, fluffy and slightly cracky I wrote as a mini-break from the angst-ridden chapter of the main destiel fic I'm working on right now... But now that I've had my fun I'll get back to the world of pain.

As usual, your comments are muchly appreciated :)

~ Imogen

**Insert obligatory disclaimer re: non ownership of characters.** These lovelies are all Kripke's, all the time.

* * *

It was late afternoon, and in the window of a grocery store just outside Bozeman, Montana, Dean Winchester was checking himself out.

The night before had been rough, even by his standards, and it looked like he was going to have a brand new scar to prove it. The cut ran in a jagged line over his brow, and now, staring at his slightly distorted reflection, he winced. Normally scars didn't bother him, but this was big, prominent and shaped like a goddamn lightning bolt.

The jokes had been coming non-stop since he and Sam had returned to the motel. If Dean heard one more reference to Hogwarts he was going to lose it.

With a frown, he started back down the road, plastic grocery bag swinging in his hand as he fished his cell out of his pocket and dialed. He'd been meaning to call Castiel anyway; he hadn't heard from the angel in almost a week, and even though he didn't have anything in particular he needed to talk to him about, he figured it was about time they caught up.

Castiel picked up on the first ring.

"Hello Dean."

"That was fast."

"Where are you?"

"Bozeman, Montana. Corner of Main and, uh," he looked up the road, squinting into the sun as he read the street sign on the corner, "Wallace."

"I'll be there momentarily."

Dean clicked the phone shut and jammed it back into his jeans. By the time he looked up, Castiel was striding toward him from the middle of the intersection. Lucky for him, traffic was sparse, and apparently none of the locals had noticed him appear out of thin air.

He stopped in front of Dean, his gaze immediately settling on his forehead.

"You're injured."

"Yeah, well," Dean shrugged, as if half the reason he had called hadn't been to have his scar angel-whammied out of existence, "what's new?"

Without another word, Castiel stepped close and briefly touched his fingers to Dean's brow, the flesh knitting back together in an instant, smooth and unblemished as the day he was born.

Castiel dropped his hand away immediately and took a step back, looking away from Dean to take in the surroundings.

As he rubbed his forehead, the skin still tingling from the angels touch, Dean frowned. He had noticed that the last few times he had seen Castiel, the angel had actually started to respect his repeated requests for personal space. Though he was glad that he wasn't going to have to say it again, he wondered what had caused the change. He had given up on mentioning it months ago, but then, quite suddenly, Castiel had started to make a point of putting an extra three feet space between them at all times.

It was disconcerting.

The fact that it was disconcerting was disconcerting.

He shook it off, and Castiel, who had apparently decided that the main street contained no threats, looked back at him.

"Where's Sam?"

"Back at the motel," Dean turned, walking toward the parking lot where he'd left the Impala as he called back, "Come on."

Castiel followed his eye line to find the car, and by the time Dean reached it he was sitting in the front, looking at a folded up newspaper that had been on the floor. Dean sank into the drivers seat, shoving the grocery bag into the back. As he started up the engine, loud music blared from the speakers. Castiel looked up from the paper.

"What is this?"

Dean glanced at him, then looked back into the rear-view, smirking as he pulled out of the parking space.

"A newspaper."

Castiel sighed, and Dean could just about hear his eyes rolling. He chuckled to himself; annoying Castiel was getting to be one of his favorite passtimes. As far as Dean was concerned, anything that made the guy a little more human was a good thing, and irritation brought out the best.

"I know that, Dean," he said, holding out the paper to show him, "You've circled something. Does it pertain to what you've been hunting here?"

Turning out of the parking lot, Dean glanced over at the newspaper. It had been floating around on the floor of the car for weeks, picked up in some random town two states over, and it was faded yellow from the sun. Sure enough, halfway down the page of advertisements there was a circle drawn in black marker. It read, in bold, stylised type, A FISTFUL OF DOLLARS.

It had been somewhere in Minnesota, and he and Sam had just finished a run-of-the-mill salt and burn job when they'd stumbled upon a nest of vampires. Dean had been hoping they'd be done in time to catch the late final screening in the theater's enthusiastically advertised Wild Wild Western Week, but in the end, when the vampires proved a lot more difficult to gank than normal, they'd missed it. Typical. He barely kept from pouting about it.

"It's just a movie I wanted to see."

"What is it about?"

"It's a western."

Castiel frowned, and Dean waved a hand as he clarified.

"You know, cowboys, bandits... general badassery," he winked at Castiel, "Basically my life if I rode a horse."

"Oh. I think I'd like that."

"Yeah?" Dean raised his eyebrows, trying to imagine what possible enjoyment an angel of the lord could get out of a spaghetti western, "Too bad we missed it, then."

"We could go see something else."

Castiel was sitting twisted in his seat watching Dean, a curious smile curling the corners of his mouth. Dean looked across at him in surprise.

"Don't you have, you know... important angel business to attend to?"

"Not right now. I have been, for lack of a better term, relieved of my duties."

Jumping immediately to the worst conclusion, Dean stared at him in horror.

"Wait, you don't mean you've been de-winged or anything, right?"

"No, I am still an angel."

Dean let out a relieved breath.

"But evidently my 'services are not required in heaven at this time'," Castiel said the words with a bitter twist of the mouth, and looked out at the passing landscape, "I've been told to remain on Earth until I am called."

"When did this happen?"

"Around a month ago."

"A month? Why didn't you say anything? What have you been doing?"

Castiel shrugged, his gaze fixed on some distant point outside.

"I didn't think it would interest you."

There was no accusation in his tone, only finality, fact, and somehow that just made Dean feel worse about it. Before he had a chance to say anything, Castiel continued.

"This past month, when I haven't been with you and Sam, I've been observing a great many things. When you called just now, I was on a coast in Alaska," he half-smiled at the memory, "the water there is very blue."

Dean found that he didn't quite know how to respond. After a moment, he turned back to the road with a shrug.

"Alright," he said, "since you've got some downtime, we'll see what's on TV."

When they arrived at the motel, they found Sam passed out on one of the beds with his laptop still on his lap, the screen casting a blue glow over his face. Dean shoved the end of the mattress with his toe, and Sam sat up with a start, his eyes bleary with sleep.

"What the hell?"

Dean shook the grocery bag at him.

"Rise and shine, princess. Grubs on."

With a yawn, Sam got to his feet, finally noticing Castiel standing behind Dean in the doorway.

"Hey, Cas," he said, then turned to Dean, "What'd you get?"

"Funyuns," Dean pulled the packet out and threw it at Sam, "Pringles, and beer."

Sam pulled a face and put the packet onto the table.

"What? You like funyuns."

"You were supposed to be getting dinner, Dean. This isn't dinner."

"Order a pizza then."

Dean pulled a beer from the pack and cracked it open, shoving it into Castiel's hands before taking out one for himself. Castiel stared at it in confusion for a moment, then tipped it to his mouth, drinking half the bottle in one go.

Muttering to himself, Sam went into the bathroom, shutting the door loudly. Dean rolled his eyes and leaned toward Castiel.

"She's grouchy when she wakes up."

"Who is?"

Dean just shook his head, sinking down onto one of the beds and reaching for the remote control which sat on the bedside table.

"Never mind. Let's see whats on."

The motel, thankfully, had cable, and it wasn't long before Dean hit the spaghetti western jackpot. The title card for Once Upon A Time In The West rolled across the screen, and Dean's eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas. He grinned at Castiel and leaned back against the head of the bed, patting the space next to him.

"Come on, Cas, get comfortable. You're gonna love this."

Castiel sat down, his limbs stiff and awkward, and stared at the screen intently.

When Sam emerged from the bathroom, he looked from Dean, to Castiel, to the TV, and blinked. It still didn't make sense.

"What are you doing?"

"Once Upon A Time In The West is on."

"I can see that... why are you watching it?"

"I love this movie."

"Why is Cas watching it?"

"Because he's awesome."

Sam opened his mouth to ask again, but apparently thought the better of it. He shook his head and sat down on the other bed to pull his shoes on. When he stood up a moment later and told Dean he was going to go get some actual food for dinner, he recieved no further acknowledgement than a wave of the hand and a loud shhhh from his brother. He left, muttering to himself, and Dean turned up the volume.

Throughout the movie, whenever a particularly good part was coming up, Dean's eyes would flick conspicuously over to Castiel to gage his reaction. He didn't know why he was bothering-the angels face rarely betrayed any emotion-but it was a habit he had aquired through years of making Sam watch his favorite movies, and it was hard to break.

When he realised that Castiel's expression was not likely to change at all, he started to make little comments, trying to get some idea of whether or not he was enjoying it.

"This soundtrack is awesome, hey Cas? Not enough harmonicas in movies these days."

"Gotta love a stetson!"

Even with his pushing, Castiel remained mostly quiet, nodding every now and then and appearing to be deep in thought.

When the movie was nearly over, Sam walked back in to the room in time to hear Dean saying;

"I bet I could pull off a pair of cowboy boots," he grinned, nodding to himself as he pictured it, "I reckon I'd look good in cowboy boots."

Sam's laugh was more snort than anything else. Dean glanced up at him.

"What?"

"How's that cowboy fetish coming along there, Dean?"

"I don't have a fetish."

"Hey, I'm not judging!" Sam held up his hands, laughing, "So long as I don't walk in on any Brokeback Mountain reenactments, what you do with your spare time is none of my business."

He narrowly dodged the empty Pringles tube that Dean pitched accross the room at his head, and sat down on his bed to watch the rest of the movie. A moment later, Castiel turned to him with a frown.

"What do you mean, Dean has a cowboy fetish?"

Sam started laughing again, and Dean groaned.

"I don't have a-"

"He gets all hot and bothered whenever he sees a dude in cowboy boots."

If looks could kill, Sam would have been nothing but a smudge of brain matter on the carpet. Castiel just nodded. When the movie ended a few minutes later, Castiel turned to Dean with a rare smile.

"I enjoyed that very much, Dean."

Without waiting for a reply, he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks had passed since their impromptu movie night, and Dean was getting pissed off.

Castiel had been strangely absent, especially considering the fact that he was not needed in heaven, and the lack of his presence was getting on Dean's last nerve.

He didn't quite know why-it wasn't like they needed his help-but the fact that he wasn't there when he didn't have anywhere better to be was like a kick in the gut.

Dean, being his usual stubborn self, was actively not calling, and so it came as a surprise when late one night, as he left a seedy little downtown bar after some post-hunt drinks, he noticed a man in a familiar trench coat leaning against the wall of an alley across the street.

He stopped and stepped out into the street to get a closer look, and sure enough, it was Castiel. He had his hands cupped around his mouth, and was frowning in concentration.

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets. He wound his way around a taxi and into the alley, kicking up dry leaves and dust as he went. He had just opened his mouth to call out when a dissonant screech echoed all around him, and he looked around, instantly on red alert. Whatever it was was close, and nothing that sounded like that could be friendly. He couldn't see anything. He called out to the angel.

"Cas?"

At the sound of his voice, Castiel jerked his head up in surprise, his hands dropping down, something small and silver reflecting in one closed fist.

"Dean?"

"What are you doing here?"

Castiel slid the silver object into his pocket and shrugged.

"Passing time."

"Where have you been?"

"Around."

The vague response set off a wave of irritation, and Dean's jaw twitched. Castiel noticed, and shrugged as he elaborated.

"I've been where-ever you've been."

"I haven't seen you in weeks."

"I didn't want to bother you, but I've always been nearby."

Dean eyed his pocket; whatever it was that Castiel had slipped into it was pressing its shape into the fabric, a narrow rectangle.

"What've you got there?"

Castiel's expression turned furtive.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Yes."

Dean raised his brow and nodded, waiting for Castiel's tense shoulders to relax before darting his hand out to grab whatever it was. Quick as lightning, Castiel's hand was around his wrist, his cold fingers holding tight. Dean let out a nervous laugh.

"Worth a shot."

After a long moment, his eyes fixed firmly on Dean's, Castiel dropped his wrist and dug into his pocket, pulling out the object with a sigh.

"I'm still learning. I wasn't going to show you yet."

As Dean stared, Castiel raised the object-a shiny new harmonica-to his mouth. A half second later, the noise that Dean had heard before came loud, a rending, eardrum-piercing screech that made him flinch, and Castiel lowered the instrument with a frown.

"It's more difficult than I expected."

Dean blinked slowly. This was a little too weird for his beer-buzzed brain to handle.

He realised his mouth was hanging open, and snapped it shut, only to half open it again with the intention of saying something. All that he managed was;

"What?"

Castiel shoved the harmonica back into his pocket with a scowl and turned on his heel, walking down the alleyway, coat billowing out behind him.

"Cas?"

"I'll not play it again."

A breeze rolled through the alley, and without another word, Castiel was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Another week and a half went by before Dean called again. He didn't want to, but he was out of options. No way was he calling Sam with this one. He'd never live it down. He just barely managed to dig his cell out of his pocket, wincing as the motion of lifting his hips sent a sharp twist of pain down his leg. He was pretty sure he could see a thin shard of bone piercing through the denim of his jeans.

"Hey Cas, little help?"

"What's wrong?"

"I'm kind of stuck."

"Where?"

Dean let out a groan. He didn't want to say it, even to Castiel.

"I think my leg might be broken."

"Where are you, Dean?"

"An abandoned farmstead just outside Lander, Wyoming," he gritted his teeth, partly against the pain in his leg, partly against the next words he had to say, "I fell down a well."

The connection clicked out, and for a few seconds, Dean worried that he had lost signal before Castiel had heard his location. The thought of being stuck in the damp muck that lined the bottom of the well, hot darts of pain running through his leg with every tiny movement he made, put a queasy pit in his stomach. The last thing he wanted was to be found by some stranger, have his face end up in the local news in a story about the stupid out-of-towner who fell down a well like a kid in a damn cartoon. He had good reason-he'd been leaning over the edge to see a twisted mess of symbols, some part of a dark spell that a group of witches had been casting, when the distant sound of a car backfiring had startled him, and he fell, landing with his left leg bent at an unnatural angle beneath him-but somehow he didn't think the local authorities would buy that. Even worse was the possibility that nobody would find him at all, and he'd be down here for days before Sam finally tracked him down and found him with a leg that needed to be cut off at the knee. He gulped down around the lump that formed in his throat, tried to tell fear to fuck right off because he was Dean Winchester, dammit, and he didn't damn well panic. The fear didn't listen, but as it turned out, it was completely unfounded.

Quite suddenly, he found himself on the grass beside the well, his back propped up against Castiel's arm, which was looped around his shoulders.

His leg was healed, though still a little tender, and he stretched it out with a relieved sigh.

"Thanks, Cas."

The words had barely left his mouth before he let out an involuntary choke of laughter.

Looking down at his own leg, he saw Castiel's sticking out beside him on the grass. Though he still wore Jimmy's shirt and coat, the angel had, for reasons unknown, ditched the dress pants and sensible black shoes.

Instead, his legs were now clad in faded denim and his feet in cowboy boots, the light tanned leather engraved and scuffed at the toe.

"What's funny?"

Dean glanced at Castiel's face, which was cocked to one side in question, and just shook his head.

"Nothing, Cas. Just glad to be out of there."

"Oh."

Dean clapped on hand on Castiel's shoulder before pushing himself to his feet, dusting himself off. When Castiel stood up, Dean found himself giving the angel a quick once over. The jeans hugged his form, showing lean but muscular legs that Dean would not have expected after seeing nothing but ill-fitting suit pants on him for years. The boots, which on closer inspection, turned out to have real, honest-to-god spurs on their heels, reminded him of Doctor Sexy, and he smirked.

Had one of the witches not turned up and interrupted his train of thought, Dean might have actually paid Castiel a compliment. Instead, they spent the rest of the night interrogating her and tracking down her friends with Sam.

Beside his one Lone Ranger reference, which went completely over Castiel's head, Dean made no mention of the unexplained change of clothes. When the angel left them in their motel a little after midnight, Sam turned to Dean with a confused look on his face.

"So, what the hell was that?"

"I have no freaking clue, dude."

Sam nodded and went into the bathroom. After a moment, Dean heard his brother's voice say what sounded like oh my GOD, followed by a loud guffaw.

He called out, "What's funny?" and got no reply.

When Sam emerged, five minutes later, he was still giggling to himself, but with one look at Dean he lost it, and doubled over in a fit of uncontrollable laughter, tears streaming down his red face. Dean looked at him like he'd gone mad, and shook his head.

"Right... well. I'm going to bed," he said, "try to keep it down, chuckles."


	4. Chapter 4

At noon the next day, as Dean yawned his way out of the bathroom, still half-asleep, Castiel returned.

He was in the boots again, but now there was more. The jeans were half-covered by tanned leather chaps and held up by a belt, the buckle in the shape of a rough brass horseshoe, and he had ditched his dress shirt and coat. In their place, he wore a dusty-red collared shirt and a faded suede vest which hung loose and unbuttoned from his shoulders.

The first thing Dean saw, though, was the hat.

A white felt Stetson that just looked so damn out of place on him that Dean found himself at a complete loss for words.

In the middle of their motel room, Sam stared at him, his face puckered as he just barely contained his laughter. Castiel seemed not to notice, and he looked at Dean seriously.

"There are demons in this town. I sensed them earlier this morning. I think they-"

"What's with the getup, Cas?"

Castiel shifted, visibly uncomfortable, and chewed on the inside of his lip before completely ignoring Sams' question.

"There are seven of them, holed up in the woods behind the highschool."

Dean tried his hardest to stop staring. It was a losing battle. His eyes trailed up and down the angel's legs, over the chaps that hugged his thighs and down to the boots that he was really starting to like, and the open collar of the shirt that gave way to smooth, pale skin. He cleared his throat.

"Um... okay," he blinked, forcing his eyes to focus on Castiel's face, "Why don't you just smite their asses, then?"

"I think they are connected to those witches from last night."

"Alright, well just let us get dressed and we'll meet you there."

With a nod, he was gone. Dean shook his head and looked at Sam.

"I think he'd lost his goddamn mind."

Sam just grinned as he pushed his way past Dean into the bathroom.

"Yeah," he said, "Something like that."

Twenty minutes later, Dean pulled into the narrow street that separated the local highschool from the dense woods, and killed the engine. He glanced at Sam and gestured toward a tree on the edge of the woods, where someone had nailed a sign that read RIP WOODY.

"Dude," he grinned, "check it out."

Sam just rolled his eyes and climbed out of the car, leaving Dean to mutter to himself.

"You wouldn't know funny if it bit you in the ass."

After collecting Ruby's knife, a pocketful of salt rounds and the trusty old sawed-off from the trunk, Dean and Sam made their way into the trees. Five minutes in, they reached a small clearing and Dean stopped.

"Wait," he said quietly, holding up one hand as he cocked the shotgun with the other, "there's something out there."

Twigs were snapping somewhere nearby, the heavy footfalls of something big coming steadily toward them through the trees. Sam stared between the branches, holding up the knife in preparation for a fight as Dean stood at his back, scanning the treeline.

"I was wrong."

They heard Castiel's voice carry out from the trees before they saw him, and the unexpected sound started them both. Dean jerked his head around, looking for the angel. What he saw was not what he expected. Castiel, still wearing the hat, sat atop a huge chestnut stallion, it's nostrils flaring as it stared down at them with wild eyes.

Castiel spoke as if he was barely aware of the horses presence, looking around the little clearing with an air of utter disinterest.

"They weren't working with the witches," he said, then added almost as an afterthought; "They're all dead, now."

Unable to hold it in any longer, Dean spluttered loudly.

"What the fuck?"

Castiel frowned, looking back over his shoulder toward the place where he had, presumably, just smited a half-dozen demons.

"They saw me. I had to kill them."

Dean shook his head, pressing his fingers into his temple.

"No, Cas... why the hell are you dressed like the Marlboro Man? What's with the horse?"

"I thought you liked cowboys."

Dean blinked, not entirely sure what he was supposed to make of that, and Castiel pulled the hat from his head.

"You... thought I..." he shook his head again, and Castiel stared at him.

Sam looked like he was about to rupture a major organ from trying not to laugh, and when he couldn't hold it in any longer, it came out loud and raucous. Dean was still staring at Castiel with a mixture of utter confusion on his face, and after a moment, an embarrassed expression came over him and Castiel was gone, leaving the horse and the hat behind.

Dean blinked again, completely bewildered as he bent down to pick up the hat from where it had landed at the horses feet.

"What..."

Sam, managing to surpress his laughter for a moment, turned to his brother with tears in his eyes.

"Jesus, Dean, do you need him to spell it out for you?"

With a frown in his direction, Dean opened his mouth to speak, then stopped as it dawned on him.

I thought you liked cowboys.

Dean's mouth fell open.

"Oh," he said, then remembered the conversation about his totally non-existent cowboy fetish weeks earlier, "oh."

His face flushed red as he stared at Sam, eyes wide.

"Did you know about this?"

"I had an idea, but no, not really."

"Huh," said Dean, absently reaching out to pet the horse on its glossy flank, speaking almost to himself, "what do you think I should do?"

Sam's face twitched into a grin that he tried, and failed, to hide.

"I think you should call him."

"And?"

"And I think I'll get my own room tonight."

With that, Sam turned on his heel and hauled ass out of the clearing, back toward the car. Had he not been thinking the same thing, Dean would have been tempted to throw the hat at him. Instead, he shoved his free hand into his pocket and looked up at the horse, settling the stetson onto his head.

"Between you and me," he said quietly, "I'm just glad he didn't find out about my thing for lacy underwear."


	5. Chapter 5

By the time they arrived back at the motel, Dean was so sick of the smug expression on Sam's face that he was ready to pitch a fit. As he climbed out of the drivers seat, he looked over at his brother, smiling pleasantly at him. He figured the best way to get back at him for being a smartass would be to mess with him, and so he gestured toward the motels reception.

"You know what? I reckon you're on to something, Sammy."

"Hmm?"

"You'll have the room to yourself tonight."

Sam just nodded, a smirk on his face; not at all the reaction that Dean was hoping for. He'd basically just told his brother that he was planning to hook up with another dude, an angel no less, and all he got was a nod? He glared at him.

"Why are you just nodding?"

Sam shrugged.

"If this is going to stop the two of you eye-fucking all the damn time, I say, get on with it already."

With that, Sam walked past him into their room to leave Dean in the parking lot, feeling an odd mix of gratitude and irritation. On the one hand, Sam was being amazingly cool about it. Not that Dean was really planning to do anything. Probably.

On the other hand, eye-fucking? Since when did he and Cas... well. Thinking back, they did seem to spend a lot of time staring at each other, even before the whole cowboy thing.

Dean cleared his throat and walked up to the reception desk. He rang the bell twice, paid a little more than he would have done normally for a king suite, and shoved the key into his pocket.

After a few hours of overthinking and staring at his phone, Dean finally got to his feet and told Sam he'd see him tomorrow. As he made his way into his new room, he dialed Castiel's number, throwing his duffel and Castiel's hat down on the bed. The phone rang four times before Castiel answered. Three more times than normal.

"Yes, Dean?"

The angel's voice sounded tired, and Dean tried to sound as normal as possible when he spoke.

"Um, hey Cas. Do you want to... um. I'm back at the motel, Room 24."

"You changed rooms?"

"Yeah, it's... uh... you just want to come here?"

"Okay."

The word echoed, and Dean turned around to find Castiel standing behind him, the phone still raised to his ear. He lowered it and clicked it closed, dropping it into the pocket of his trenchcoat, which he wore with all his normal clothes. Apparently he'd given up on the cowboy look. Dean was disappointed. He'd kind of loved those boots. He said as much, and Castiel smiled.

"They were vintage," he said proudly, "the salesman assured me that they were authentic cowboy boots from the 1870's."

Dean grinned at that.

"Well, I hope you kept them," he said, then figuring it was best to just bite the bullet, went on, "but look, Cas... I like you just fine... normally."

"You do?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. And I mean... if you're trying to pick... you don't need to dress up like... I mean," Dean sighed.

Words failed him, every damn time. Actions, that's where it was at. He looked at Castiel with a frown, wondering what the best approach would be before finally muttering, "Oh, what the hell."

Dean reached out, grasping the end of Castiel's tie in his fist to pull him in, pausing for a brief second to feel the tingle of startled breath over his lips before closing the distance. He ran one hand up, winding it into Castiel's hair as he gripped his waist with the other, pulling their bodies together. Castiel's lips parted with a soft moan, the noise so unlike anything Dean had ever heard from the angel that he could hardly believe he was responsible for it.

As the kiss grew deeper their hands roamed freely, and Dean pushed the trenchcoat from Castiel's shoulders, letting it fall in a heap on the floor as he got to work on the tie. He felt hands close over his, and pulled back to find Castiel looking at him, his pupils blown wide, his tongue darting out over his kiss-bruised lips. After a second, Castiel's hands dropped away, and began sliding up beneath Dean's shirt, over the warm skin of his stomach. The muscles tensed and quivered under his light touch, and Dean held eye contact as he pulled the tie loose, dropping it on top of the coat. In a flurry of movement they were kissing again, both men pulling and pushing at eachothers clothes until they were pressed up against each other, skin against skin in the diminishing light of dusk.

Dean pulled back, his eyes on Castiel as he walked toward the bed, and for a moment, Castiel did nothing but stare, drinking in the sight of Dean in a way that made the hunter's whole body ache for contact.

Castiel closed the gap between them in two long strides, pulling Dean against him. In one movement Dean had him on his back, and Castiel stared up at him with heavily-lidded eyes as he straddled him on the bed.

Dean knelt above him, running his hands over the smooth planes of Castiel's stomach, up over his chest, dragging his thumb slowly back and forth over each nipple before leaning down to pull one into his mouth, tongue flicking over the hardened flesh. Castiel arched up beneath him, gasping for breath, and Dean took the parted lips as an invitation, moving up to claim the angel's mouth with his own, dipping his tongue, tasting, teasing.

Their hips lined up, and Dean moved against him, feeling the angel grow harder with every beat of his rhythm. Soon, Castiel was panting. He reached up to grip Dean's arms, and before he knew what was happening, Castiel had flipped him over, swapping their positions. His hands pressed down in the sheets either side of Dean's head, he leaned down to run the tip of his tongue over the hunter's collarbone. Dean bit down on his lip, grinding his hips up to feel the swell of Castiel slide against him, their bodies damp with sweat.

He reached down between them, staring up at Castiel's face as he stroked his fingers along the angel's length, relishing the moan that escaped his lips before taking them both into his hand, the slick skin sliding together. He felt Castiel's hand close over his, slowing his movement until he was panting with the need for release. His free hand flew out to his side, bumping something on the bed, and realising what it was he closed his fingers around it, lifting it up. He reached up, putting the stetson onto Castiel's head, a wolfish grin on his face as he sped up the movement of their hands. All at once, Castiel's body tensed up and he cried out, the sound tipping Dean over the edge so that they both came, hips bucking, slipping together in the dark.

Castiel leaned down, pressing breathless kisses over Dean's jawline, his lips, his neck, before laying down beside him. Dean traced his fingertips along Castiel's side, and after a long moment, Castiel spoke, his voice rough.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Cas?"

"I think I have a cowboy fetish."

Dean chuckled to himself, tilting his face down to press his lips against Castiel's neck.

"Yeah," he murmured, "I think I do, too."


End file.
